


Aletheia

by PixChuu22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - The Sign of Three, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2346656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixChuu22/pseuds/PixChuu22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aletheia: a Greek word variously translated as "unclosedness," "unconcealedness," "disclosure," or "truth". The literal meaning of the word ἀ–λήθεια is "the state of not being hidden; the state of being evident" and it also implies sincerity, as well as factuality or reality.</p><p>Inspired by a prompt from Tumblr user thetwogaydetectives: "Someone write me a fic where John realizes Sherlock left [the wedding reception] early and then goes to find him and they are forced to confront their feelings."</p><p>Available in Russian (ру́сский язы́к): http://ficbook.net/readfic/2569164</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aletheia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nickygp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nickygp/gifts).



_'He's just gone to the loo,'_ John Watson thought, forcing a smile at whatever his new bride had been saying. He hoped a smile was the right response; he hadn't even taken a moment to gauge her facial expression. He couldn't focus on anything that was happening to him, his mind absolutely swirling. It had been almost an hour since he'd last seen his best friend and best man, Sherlock Holmes. He'd swirled Mary away from the tall man, clutching tight to his new bride in the way a man drowning in the ocean would clutch at any bit of floating flotsam in a desperate attempt to keep his head above water. He'd danced away from Sherlock, denying what he'd just seen on his best friend's face as he made a bad joke about the quiet dances they'd shared in the sitting room of Sherlock's flat when Sherlock had been teaching John how to _not_ injure his wife-to-be's foot while sharing their first dance. And now, here he was, married to Mary Watson (née Morstan) and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Have you seen Sherlock?" he asked, interrupting Mary mid-word. He did not miss the wave of annoyance that swept across her face and he backpedaled quickly; it wouldn't do to annoy his new bride on the literal night of their wedding. "I mean, I'm sorry, but he's just vanished. He was acting a bit off earlier; maybe he's gotten sick."

"He's _not_ sick." Mary gave a quick laugh devoid of any real amusement as she possessively tightened the arm she had around John's waist. "He's probably still around here somewhere."

"I haven't seen him for at least an hour. Look, let me just... I want to ask around, all right?"

Mary's face tightened subtly, but after a moment she sighed and nodded. "I was thinking I might want to sit down and have a glass of water. Come find me once you've talked to him?"

"Of course." John dropped a brief peck on her temple before disentangling himself from her grip and threading his way through the crowd of dancing wedding attendees, his eyes sweeping over them as he looked for one particular dark, curly-haired head that should have been easily spotted standing above nearly everyone else.

His queries of Janine Hawkins, Mary's maid of honor and best friend, revealed that she'd last seen him almost an hour back when he'd been looking for someone to dance with. Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady and caretaker, hadn't seen him since Mary and John's first dance when Sherlock had played an absolutely gorgeous composition on his violin. It wasn't until John bumped into Molly Hooper, an assistant pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, that he finally got some results.

"Oh, he left ages ago." Molly's narrow-lipped mouth twitching up into a nervous smile as her eyebrows pulled low over her eyes, making her expression seem almost pained. "I saw him leaving just after you and Mary went to dance. He looked... um, anyway, he left."

"Wait, no, 'he looked...' like what?" John asked, putting a hand on Molly's forearm as she tried to turn back to her fiancé, Tom. Molly fluttered her hands lightly in agitation and John took his own hand back quickly. She hesitated, twisting her hands together as she stared uncomfortably at John's face. Finally, though, she sighed and shook her head faintly, making the huge yellow bow in her hair bobble.

"He looked sad? Sort of sad and... lost?"

"Sad? Sad how?" John asked, feeling a spike of adrenaline shoot through his abdomen and tingle its way into his fingers and toes. _'Danger,'_ the adrenaline whispered. _'Danger night.'_

"Just... I don't know. Sad." Molly hesitated, stepping away from Tom and closer to John, her brow furrowed and her eyes wide as she looked at him. "Is he okay?"

"I don't know, but I mean to find out." John's voice was low and tense as he shoved a hand into his pocket to withdraw his mobile. Mary had fussed when she'd realized he'd been keeping it on him during the reception, but John was immensely glad to not need to hunt it down now that he needed it. He was texting Sherlock before he'd even taken two steps away from Molly.

_Where are you? Are you ok? -JW_

He shoved the mobile back into his pocket after double-checking that he had it set to vibrate and headed towards the doors of the reception hall. He didn't stop to tell Mary he was stepping out; he'd only be standing outside to text with Sherlock for a few minutes.

It was bitingly cold outside the damp warmth of the reception hall, the November air making John hiss softly in displeasure. He had not brought his jacket to the wedding and was missing it now that he was standing outside in the chilly evening air. He shoved a hand into his trouser pocket again, jerking his mobile out and checking to make sure he hadn't just missed the _bzz-bzz_ of an incoming message. There was nothing.

_Please reply. Are you ok? -JW_

Now that he wasn't inside the party anymore, John felt safe in turning the ringer volume all the way up, hoping if he missed the vibration of his mobile he would hear the cheerful little melody that indicated incoming texts. He kept the phone in his hand as he paced back and forth in front of the reception hall doors, his tension ratcheting up with each second that ticked by without a reply from Sherlock.

_Sherlock, I need to hear from you. I'm worried. -JW_

A quick check of the timestamp showed John it had been ten minutes since he sent the first text. Maybe Sherlock was in the bath. Maybe Sherlock had left his mobile in the sitting room while he was setting something on fire in the kitchen. Maybe Sherlock was playing his violin and couldn't hear the incoming texts.

John pulled up his contacts list and tapped Sherlock's name, waiting while the call rang out. He crossed his arms over his chest to ward off the pressing chill of the night air, shuffling from foot to foot in an awkward little dance while he listened to the buzz of the outgoing call. Finally, it went to voicemail.

"You've reached Sherlock Holmes. I'm not currently available. If you have need of me, leave a message. Make it interesting."

"Sherlock, it's John. I haven't seen you in about an hour and Molly said you left the reception. Are you okay? I... look, I just want to know if you're okay. Call me back, would you?"

John hesitated, pressing his lips as he tried to think of what else to say to increase the likelihood that he might get a call back from Sherlock. The silence dragged on, the open line hissing softly in his ear. Finally, though, there was a beep as the recording time ran out. John sighed and let the message go through, shoving his mobile into his pocket.

Sherlock had left the reception without saying good-bye. Sherlock had looked sad when he was leaving. Every instinct John had was insisting that Sherlock was in danger.

John pulled his mobile from his pocket once more, thumbing in a quick message to his new bride, aware that her mobile was tucked into her purse and that it would probably be awhile before she saw it.

_Worried about Sherlock. He apparently left early. Have to check on him. Back soon. -JW_

It took very little time to hail a cab on the street outside the reception hall, and John had his mobile in his hand the entire ride, chewing his lips as he stared at the brightly glowing screen the entire cab ride to Baker Street. He felt awful leaving Mary without saying a proper good-bye. With luck, he'd be able to sort Sherlock out in an hour or so and head back in time to celebrate their wedding properly. They had reservations at The Landmark Hotel that evening, the same place he'd initially tried to propose to her the previous autumn. He laughed to himself as he remember Sherlock interrupting that first proposal with a ridiculous disguise and a blithe 'not dead.' At the time, he'd wanted to bloody _kill_ that idiot... but a year down the road, he could see the humor in the situation, even if he still hadn't entirely forgiven Sherlock for disappearing for eighteen months.

When the cab pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street, John thrust entirely too much money at the driver before jumping out and rushing up the steps. He realized belatedly that Mrs. Hudson wasn't home to let him in and Sherlock probably wouldn't answer the summons of the bell.

"Fuck," he whispered, thrusting both hands into his hair with frustration. He paced a frustrated little circle on the pavement before he realized what an idiot he was being. He jerked his wallet back out of his pocket, grappling with it frantically. He had long ago stuffed an extra front door key for 221 into the wallet in the off-chance that he misplaced his own keys. It was a precaution he had taken through most of his adult life. He was relieved that he had never gotten around to switching the key for 221 with the key for his new flat across town, despite meaning to do so for nearly two and a half years.

He unlocked the front door and nearly dove through it. The rising feeling of 'danger, danger, danger' had been pulsing with each beat of his heart as soon as his feet had touched the pavement outside the flat and now he could feel it suffusing every inch of his body. It thrummed in his fingertips, lurched sickeningly through his stomach, and rattled around his head like loose change in an empty pail.

He shut the front door with more force than necessary and took the stairs up to 221B two at a time, shoving the sitting room door open. It was almost a relief to see Sherlock sitting on the edge of the sofa, his eyes wide as he stared at John in the sitting room doorway. He had taken off most of his wedding attire; his suit jacket was thrown over the back of the sofa and his white silk shirt lay on the coffee table, although he still had his trousers and shoes on. He still had his tie on, too, in a way; it was looped around and around his left biceps with the tail held neatly between Sherlock's bared teeth. It had made the veins in his left arm pop up beautifully. His right hand, poised just above his arm, held a syringe with what John had to assume was a cooked dose of heroin in it. It looked oddly delicate in Sherlock's large hands.

"Put it down." John was unable to keep the shaking anger out of his voice as he pointed one finger at the syringe. "Put it down right now, Sherlock."

There was a moment of hesitation, Sherlock's eyes narrowing as they flicked from John's face down to the needle millimetres above his own vein.

"Don't try it." John's voice was very low and very angry, each word spoken with carefully controlled precision. "We're going to have a little chat, and I want you clear-headed, all right?"

The moment stretched, Sherlock's pale eyes flickering up to John's face again. Finally, the tie dropped from his teeth and he lowered the syringe away from his vein. His voice was precise and tired when he spoke. "Where's your wife?"

"Still at the reception," John said, pointing again at the syringe in Sherlock's hand. "You drop that right now, or God help me, I will tackle you and take it from you."

Sherlock gave a delicate snort before leaning out to drop the uncapped syringe onto the coffee table beside his white silk shirt. It skittered and spun before coming to a stop with the needle stabbed through the cuff of one sleeve. The imagery was not lost on John and he felt his nostrils flare as he fought the urge to put his fist through Sherlock's face for doing something so stupid.

"What the _hell,_ Sherlock?" he asked, hands clenching at his sides. "You left my wedding early to _shoot up?"_

"It seemed the best choice." Sherlock was refusing to meet John's eyes as he unwound the cream-colored tie from his biceps with slow, deliberate movements.

"The _best choice?"_ John shouted. He pressed his lips together as soon as the words had exploded out of him, trying to pull himself back from his anger. He could not - _could not_ \- let his anger ride him right then. Screaming at a recovering drug addict who was on the verge of a relapse would help nothing. He took a deep breath, calming himself before he spoke again. "Why didn't you come to me? Why didn't you tell me if you were anywhere close to doing this?"

"And ruin your wedding day?" Venom was creeping into Sherlock's deep voice. His head was still turned down towards his own bare arm, but his eyes flicked up towards John's face. Even that barest of glances was full of anger and recrimination and it hit John like a punch to the gut. "Come to you and tell you that I need you more than your new bride? Drag you away from Mary on your wedding night so you can babysit me while I play the violin and pace the flat? And what about tomorrow, when you leave on your sex holiday?"

"Honeymoon." John corrected his friend automatically and Sherlock turned his body on the sofa, twisting towards John as his lips contorted viciously.

"'Honeymoon,' 'sex holiday.' What does it _matter_ what you call it? You are _still_ leaving tomorrow. All right, you caught me tonight. I can't shoot up now. Fine. Tomorrow morning, you'll be gone and I can do whatever I like to cope with this because you won't be here to tell me how _wrong_ it is."

"No. No, you cannot do... Sherlock, how can you... _my honeymoon."_ John stumbled over the words, unable to believe that Sherlock would do this. "You're threatening to get high because I'm leaving with my new wife on my honeymoon? What kind of sense does that make? Are you really _that_ desperate for someone to worship your every word that you'd risk your life to punish me for going on my own _honeymoon?"_

"Worship my every word?" Sherlock repeated, hands clenching spastically on the edge of the sofa as his expression went remote and icy. "Is that what you think I want you to do for me, John? Fawn after me? Tell me how brilliant I am? _Blog_ about me? Is _that_ all that you think you are?"

"I... no. I mean, I'm your best friend, right? I know there's more to it... that was a bad choice of words. I'm sorry." John sighed heavily, reaching up to run one hand over his mouth as he fought not to shove any more recriminations on Sherlock. He could see fine tremors running along the length of Sherlock's braced arms. Sherlock's lips were quivering faintly. He looked like he was using every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep himself from... something. The sight twisted violently in John's chest and he sighed again, stepping over to stand next to Sherlock, resting one hand lightly on the arm of the sofa nearest him. "Talk to me, okay? Tell me what's... what you're thinking, why tonight is a danger night. Are you worried that me being married is going to change things between us? Because it's not."

"It _is,"_ Sherlock snapped, and John did not miss the brief flash of agony that swept over Sherlock's face before the other man was able to tamp down his emotions again. "It's already started. You're leaving tomorrow and you'll be gone for weeks. When have you ever been away from me for more than a few days?"

John's entire body tightened and he felt his left hand trying to shake. He flexed his fingers quickly, forcing the tremor away. He cleared his throat, and spoke without inflection. "When you pretended to be dead for eighteen months."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open for a second before snapping shut again. Whatever he'd be planning to say was swept away by John's soft, recriminating words.

"It was necessary," Sherlock finally said, his voice colorless as he turned eyes that seemed strangely pleading up to John's face.

"Yeah, well... so's my honeymoon. It's necessary for my marriage."

Sherlock's eyes shut, his head turning slowly away from John and dropping limply forward. When his eyes opened again, they focused on the syringe on the coffee table in front of him. John reacted instinctively, stepping over and planting the sole of one dress shoe against the edge of the coffee table and shoving it firmly across the room, putting it several feet away from Sherlock where he perched tense and shaking on the edge of the sofa. It sent a new wave of adrenaline through John and he was nearly panting as he lowered his foot back to the floor after launching the syringe full of heroin out of Sherlock's reach.

He had expected Sherlock to be angry, but the face Sherlock turned towards him was resigned. Sherlock stared at him for several long seconds before a very faint smile lifted one corner of his lips. "John Watson, saving the life."

"Yeah, and I'll do this every time." John's voice was shaking faintly with the fresh wave of adrenaline. "Every bloody time. Do you understand me? I'm not letting you shoot up again, Sherlock. If you need me here tonight, I'll stay here tonight. I won't leave the flat."

"And tomorrow?" Sherlock asked, his face and voice carefully neutral.

"We'll... we'll reassess things in the morning."

"Of course." Sherlock let himself abruptly fold back into the couch in a slump, arms falling limply at his sides. "And when Mary tells you that you _have_ to leave on the honeymoon, you'll acquiesce to your new bride. You'll leave me, just as I knew you would do as soon as I saw the engagement ring on her finger."

"What do you _expect_ me to do?" John asked, his frustration cresting again. "Do you want me to cancel my honeymoon?"

"Yes!" The word came out a snarl, despite the fact that Sherlock did not move from his crumpled position on the sofa.

"Oh, well, at least now we're being honest!" John shouted, throwing his hands up as he turned away from Sherlock for a moment, casting his eyes around the sitting room in impotent fury. "You want me to call Mary and tell her I won't be spending the wedding night with her _and_ that I'm canceling our honeymoon because Sherlock Holmes needs me to babysit?"

"Yes!" Sherlock's eyes had narrowed as John ranted, his hands tightening into fists on the sofa. He was still slumped, but color was rising in his cheeks.

"Why the hell do you demand so much of me?" John asked, taking an angry step closer to the sofa, one knee bumping the edge of the cushion before it. "Why do you ask and _ask_ and expect me to give you things that I can't give you?"

"Because I _need them!"_ Sherlock shouted back, finally raising his voice as he launched himself off the couch to stand toe-to-toe with John, thrusting his furious face towards John's. "Because I need _you_ and it doesn't matter that you're _married_ because I _still need you._ It doesn't matter that you have a wife because she will _never_ need you as much as _I_ need you. I need you to stabilize me on my worst days and I need you to walk beside me on my best days. I need you telling me I'm brilliant because you're the only one who _will_. I need you to stop the noise in my head when everything is too much and I know that you _could_ except you've _never tried."_

"I... you..." John felt as startled as if Sherlock had tackled him bodily to the floor and begun punching him, although he probably would have handled that better than this surprising, furious confession. He could not seem to find any words, his tongue thick and stupid in his mouth as he stared at Sherlock's wild, beautiful eyes just centimetres away from his own.

But Sherlock wasn't done. He reached out, hands wrapping tightly around John's biceps just above his elbows, holding John as if to prevent him stepping away now that Sherlock had narrowed the distance between them to almost nothing. "Do you know what I realized today at the wedding? I told you, but did you hear me? It's _always you,_ John Watson. You keep me right. Do you have any idea what it's like to _finally_ come to the right conclusion, but for it to be _too fucking late?"_

Sherlock broke off, panting. John's breathing matched Sherlock's gasp for gasp as he stared at the other man's slightly frantic expression and took in the faint trembling in the fingers wrapped around his arms. He had a slowly growing suspicion of what Sherlock was trying to tell him, but he didn't want to come to the wrong conclusion and embarrass himself. He took a breath and held it for a moment, trying to slow his racing heart. "What are you saying? I need you to be... _completely_ clear."

"It's _you,_ John." The hands on John's arms gentled, their grip turning into a caress as Sherlock drew his hands up and over John's shoulders, resting soft and warm at the curve of shoulder and neck. The fury bled out of Sherlock's expression with the same suddenness with which it had appeared, leaving his face full of a sad sort of longing as he leaned in to John, closing the centimetres between them. He spoke again, his breath warm against John's mouth. "It's always you."

Sherlock kissed without skill but with enthusiasm, his full lips warm and full of trembling sweetness as they pressed to John's. For his own part, John was so stunned that he could barely respond, his own lips forming the correct shape but barely playing their part in the duet. Sherlock pulled back after a second, his eyebrows drawn down and his mouth tightly pinched as he took in the expression on John's face. He had only a brief beat to try and infer John's emotional state, though, because John's hands came up to cup against Sherlock's sharp jawline, drawing Sherlock's face back down again with a kind of rough desperation born out of _years_ of frustration. John fed at Sherlock's mouth with no real art, his need too great for him to attempt a seduction. At the moment, absolutely nothing mattered but the feel of Sherlock's lips pressing against John's and the way Sherlock's hands tightened on John's shoulders to pull them even closer together and the way Sherlock's breath exploded from his nostrils as he surrendered to John's fervent kisses.

They took their time learning how to kiss each other, working at it until they had the angle right and until they could deepen their kiss without their teeth clashing together. Neither was in a hurry to break away, enjoying the slow, satisfying burn as they tasted and teased. Their kiss was the fulfillment of far too many meaningful glances and far too many desperate nights believing that their feelings were unrequited. It held all the passion that John had tried and never succeeded in summoning up when he was kissing Mary.

"Jesus Christ," John gasped, breaking the kiss to drop his forehead to Sherlock's bare shoulder as he sucked in several quick, desperate lungfuls of air.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his voice a soft rumble as he panted against the side of John's face. He had moved his hands from John's shoulders to his back at some point, his fingers spread wide as he stroked his hands up and down the subtly rough texture of John's suit jacket.

"Mary. My _wife,"_ John said, slowly raising his face to look up at the taller man.

Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally and he dropped his arms from John's back at once, stepping away as his expression went carefully blank. John caught Sherlock by his forearms before he could move more than a step, holding tightly.

"Don't do that." John tugged insistently. "Come back."

"You've said it yourself, John: Mary, your _wife_. Shouldn't you be getting back to her?"

"No." John tugged again. When Sherlock didn't move back into John's arms, John stepped forward to press against Sherlock, dropping a soft kiss to the pale skin of Sherlock's shoulder. "No, I shouldn't. I'm not leaving you, Sherlock. I told you I would stay in the flat tonight if you needed me. Do you need me?"

"But, Mary -"

"Do. You. Need me?" John asked, emphasizing the words carefully as he stared hard into Sherlock's confused eyes.

"I do," Sherlock said, the words the softest rumble of sound.

"Then I'm staying with you." John's words were absolutely sure, the decision the easiest one he'd ever had to make.

"For how long?" Sherlock asked, standing tense and unyielding in John's embrace.

"How long are you going to need me?" John tightened his arms faintly around Sherlock's back.

"Probably always," Sherlock admitted, eyebrows drawing down slightly at his confession.

"Then that's how long I'll stay."

The smile on Sherlock's face was slow in forming. It seemed to come in bits and pieces and it kept dissolving into a look of stunned confusion. It took many false starts before it finally stretched his mouth into a true, proper smile. John did not miss the faint shimmer of tears in the taller man's eyes and it made his own throat tighten sharply.

"Come here, you." He spoke softly, his arms tightening around Sherlock once again as he pushed up onto his toes to reach for Sherlock's kiss again. "It's all right; I've got you now. And I don't mean to let go."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for reading this fic. If you haven't yet, please take a moment to leave Kudos (and, if you are reading this Note at the very end, I assume you enjoyed it enough to WANT to leave Kudos). Comments are my addiction; I love to chat. Don't hesitate to ask questions or just say how much you enjoyed reading.
> 
> You can follow my Tumblr for updates and random writerly musings plus reblogs of Johnlock theories and metas that catch my attention: pixchuu221b.tumblr.com
> 
> See you in the next fanfic.


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